[thedailymichael]

.ᐟ WELCOME BACK TO NEVERLAND .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝘆𝘂𝗻𝗮𝗿𝗶. 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁. 𝗺𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘆'𝘀 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱

| requests are open .ᐟ

check out the . . . |

neverland trove | rules | backstage | magical mail

❝𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

        𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘯 '𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.❞

⚠ This is a sideblog! All followings and likes will come from my main account @yuunarii-arii

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[lestatress]

PROJECT MOONWALK

Under the code name Margot, you have been assigned by TimeLine Corporation to prevent the death of global icon Michael Jackson. The mission has been attempted by 20 agents prior and succeeded by 0. The future of the commonwealth thanks you for your service.

You’re no one. He’s the world. And his life is in your hands, no matter how many times it takes to save him—no matter how impossible it seems.

In which you have devoted your life to ensuring his.

cont. time travel/multiverse AU , character study, mystery , angst , hurt/comfort , fluff , death , trauma , hollywood corruption , substance abuse , violence , physical + verbal abuse , racism + misogyny , fem!reader , mental health , mature themes and sexual content (18+) , existentialism , multiverse/realities , confusing time laws , prob inaccurate science

AS A TIMELINE AGENT, PLEASE PROVIDE ALL OF YOUR FINDINGS IN THE FOLLOWING FILES:

📁 : mission report 📁 #1 : wanna be startin' somethin' 📁 #2 : the way you make me feel 📁 #3 : whatever happens 📁 #4 : upside down

and more to come…

[thedailymichael]

Thinkin' of fixing up this theme a bit, so it feels homey and then post a lil' about me ✨️🤭 in case y'all are interested in getting to know me 👏

[thedailymichael]

Your caring boyfriend Thriller-Era!Michael who comes back home after finishing recording rehearsals to find you looking way worse than he has ever seen. The whole arsenal out; junk food galore, a movie you only watch when you need background noise, and water in your eyes that says you were soon to call everything quits.

And what better way to calm you down than holding you deep in his arms, "n'aw, baby. Hey, what's happening?" Forearms wrapping around your waist as he nudges your neck with his nose. Michael didn't expect to hear an explanation from you. Heck, he didn't need one. You weren't in the best of moods which was frankly obvious, so Mikey would use every trick at his disposal to at least bring the light back in your eyes.

When I say every. I mean every.

From doing a personal performance with him and bubbles to suggesting random board games to even singing the silliest of tunes only to find that goofy smile on your face after he sang a song about the gunk in your nose.

[thedailymichael]

how often do you plan on updating past exposure? I’m invested already!

🥹I'm so happy y'all are enjoying the series so far!

Alright, so I don't have a schedule at the moment, especially because I am busy with work and shit.

However, I aim to post 2-3 chapters per month! So, this June I've already posted the prologue, and I hope I can finish Chapter 1 before the month ends.

I've already decided on the ending and have a plan on how the story will go, I just need to write it all down. Which will certainly take some time, but I welcome you all to join in the journey with me!

Also, once I introduce Michael in the story and create a dynamic with him and reader, I will bring up a new format.

It will be mini moments within the series. So, y'all can send in asks about different scenarios, reactions, etc. that you would want to see with Time Traveler!Reader and Michael, and then they will act as small moments that happened in-between chapters!

[thedailymichael]

Aight, now it's time for those curly/wavy-hair!reader and otw!mikey hehe 🤭 he's so cute

[thedailymichael]

Can I just say how excited I am to read the rest of Past Exposure! Like I’m so hyped. Your writing is absolutely amazing

😭This is so sweet, thank you so so much for reading the prologue!! I'm working my hardest to make this series, and it means so much to me that you enjoyed it!! 💗💗💗🥹

[thedailymichael]

If anyone has videos or shorts/reels of MJ, I would love it if you could drop them in my inbox 🥹 There's so many interviews and moments that I've never seen, and i'm trying to soak up as much MJ content as possible! 😌 so far i've watched so many silly Michael Jackson compliations 🤭

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent. Coul” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

| past exposure taglist |

@calicina @dxmomo @7viiseven @princepitiya @commaanders @karsiemicth @alonia-olivia @bia-n-t-d @custards-world @ivantillmylove @sleepdeprived-barelyalive

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent. Coul” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

| past exposure taglist |

@nisrine1622 @amoravelee @crazylady20 @femkillz @nishthathegreat @lovefromcami @lyingsirenn @midnightsunkissssed @myathegoat @koyadagreat @spookyninjaland @spookyninjaland @ilovvesleepp @cherubae111 @ketaira @lollygagg1ng @politekisses @mizermouse @rorawrnoa-zoro @historiault @ryubyy @justastarrymess @sxphr2 @cumbersome-robes @valzzli @the-whitequeen-13 @justanotherpersonaroundtheworld @slutforglorfindel @fluffybunbunxo @baeyhkun @ilovefictionalmen231 @chocotragedy @min1k1ssr @outoftheseine @awemiuana @boyquityellin @prettygalleria @funkaoverwar @kuriozgirl @hiskissez @uno-08 @bahbahtintin-blog @mitzuki1123 @harryssyndrome @daeriennlynxie @iknowitsbetterblue @foulgentlemenconnoisseur @papichulomacy @castielsb1tch @kianaswifie

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent. Coul” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

| past exposure taglist |

@kietourhrt @4lulai @kimmomi333 @sadeaholic @appleciderroach @chelovecookies @justboredroaming @the-starship-athena @bangtan7553 @bubbleguppiewars @wonderhorsss @trinityhasjams @thelittletobsterthatcould @lalaloopsysstuff @inggu09 @whereswario @camilliathegreat @inumak11 @peacemakersbeloved @kloverkiss @kiaris-posts @petalwisps @seelmo @mattsburningred @passhun4w-blog @matisse556 @magglesx @crminbvld @happyyyandcrazyyy @badussyussysstuff @michaelsflower @itsberrydreemurstuff @almondtofu006 @gardenof-venus @lvspedri @lemmeseethosetoes @a-dal7490 @dokyluvie @1andonlytashae @dreamybap @shittingonyourgrave @satoriswife @lollipoplies @t0tallynotme @keokiemonster @ibescrollingsoidk @pyt-liyah @wiitchesterr

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent. Coul” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

| past exposure taglist |

@mayteaej @jaellyfishh @wbobssessed @xyahx @cherryglitchpearl @thatgirl-ea @emmalupin5854 @rvyellowflower @purgatorys1lverstar @ange1-tears @daemontargaryenwhore @ppancakesforu @alientee @bakugotypecrashout @preachergal @fluffypuddingatz @sweetrosaa @nctkage @mysterioussag @spiceysukuna-blog @ursamajor17 @kundere20000000 @latteletia @ellaaa47 @ominouspercussions @themaccapad @1meshugge1 @cuntpuntcowboy @lovetyong @paranoia-scrms @mjloverrsstuff @munsons-mayhem28 @yyyriaaa @nebulaglitxh @fluffybunbunxo @bueckersville @goon2enha @sugarrushbell @nyctogeny @faeswings @itad0risgf @cozyfilth @babygguk98 @ray111secretdiary @peritinkers @bambidiarie @rosali3show @dirtymartinisz @argentinemango

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent. Coul” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

| past exposure taglist |

@justfaefaeee @tojiswifeforlife @marvolos @thrillrnight @applehecds @gogoyubari888 @18lkpeters @laetasolis @leeniverse @tessasaurusworld @flesheatingvamp @aizawaspersonalassistant @tellmewhattoputhere @rosiiee3 @roxdefox @nunusmoll @nc616 @shamonemjshamone @alien-clavicles @watamotee33 @laceyalannaa @yamyam-tuna @morrigansayre17 @imcamboaf @mjssluttyfish @giyuunation @angel-cross-lounge @mercurial-wallflower @craftycrafter26 @cutttteeee @ooooglymoooogly @bridraws7 @nodisdino @aisheteruyosblog @sugacor3 @jastoo46 @scarlettvoidsmile @loveyfawn @ryleiisme @jetstarentity @allihavetodoiisdream @yokkamin0 @vannie-world @sisuthebisu @random-shit-i-like-2 @softchaosdiary505 @forgottennoot @lipstickconfessions @booklovr32

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent. Coul” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

| past exposure taglist |

@delicatecoffeepeanut @artflooo @hdkygehdo @theyluvjolibee @badgalsantx @saintloveee @sanasour @tumblingdollx5 @kynswrldd @bambigou @minaamhh @stay-light @strawblueberrys @noah-uhhh-what @nyeddleblog @ang3laria @arwenundomieel @roseb0w @mikaelsonsalvatoremalfoysworld @badnanaa @soulsforsales @ilovensyncandbritneyspears @ursamajor17 @jazzycurls @jupiterandjunoandmars @balienhour @chxrrylimeade @mutistan @soulsznnnn @bfnny @cth1144 @savagecreole @dimplednicole @baka2trappy @corpserots @davidcorenswetsbrownie @heesunki @xobiba @itsmeluig @icarus140 @nikkiittyx @berry-bat5 @imsodapopcurtisgf @lovingyeet @kujouhh @sandwhich095 @theethy @plan3tch1ld @heubstr @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent. Coul” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

| past exposure taglist |

@bryannabarradas @lestatress @hello-its-lana16 @curiousinfinitydragon @afanofeverything1 @justanotherpersonaroundtheworld @pinkdollyy1 @coornballz @tk4747uakwii @m-e-g-h-a-ns-world @babygguk98 @inlovewithpsychos @umibug @stardomblues @yourexpensivegirl @a-si11y-bi11y @champagnemamiiiiiiiiii @marionettesgarden @apqlehead @icameforareason @spicypsionturtle @person-005 @apple7ead @honeyjupiterr @neworleansgurl @hyperfixawahhhh @heyapoopy @lovelyhunnys @pinkipiez @k1ttyx0x0 @creamyjunenoon26 @starrrinhereyes @nesiris21 @michaeltrapson156 @myyuh @daniela75201 @milkmochaaaaa @baelorenthusiast @maeveinthewild @sunyrose @pinkdollyy1 @iangleluv @uknownn111 @blackbeauty1s @naevisringring @escapefromrealitylol @taelovebugg @nerluvsyouu @kamii-2 @michaelsgirlie

[thedailymichael]

SAY CHEESE! prologue...

starring .✦ ݁˖ fem!reader... later will include pre-otw!michael

summary .✦ ݁˖ So, you may have found a box filled with your grandparents' memories on your doorstep. No problem. But what does it mean if said memory threw you out of your comfort zone and into New York City?

word count .✦ ݁˖ 2.7k

content warnings .✦ ݁˖ Mentions of family member's death. Reader's ethnicity and features are not specifically stated other than the fact she lives in Chicago. Swearing. School debt.

past exposure masterlist

...queue background music...

What was life if not with a detour? You couldn’t count on your fingers how many times you’ve heard the same sayings over and over again. When life throws you a curveball… Expect the unexpected… Times can change in a blink of an eye! Well folks, you tell me, how much is too unexpected?

Your life was something that could be described in quite a few words. Basic. Regular. Average. Solitary. Okay, so maybe you could have summed it up with lonely and boring. But it wasn’t all so bad; working a part-time job by the evening, and dashing across your college campus in the day. You were like any student who was scrambling with debt and time as if you were dealing face to face with the devil himself. In the simplest of terms, you were a burnt-out girl at the ‘fresh’ age of twenty one and have yet to find the joys of young adulthood everyone else was soaking up.

A crappy studio apartment down south of Chicago was what you called home. One small square to fit a queen sized bed, couch, TV set, and a circular dining table that could take three seats maximum—not without accidentally touching the other’s feet and legs. All while it was overlooked from your open kitchen. Everything was… Alright. At least you were able to save a couple thousand bucks by living off-campus; The University of Chicago had some suspiciously high prices to live comfortably in the dorms and you could not handle being broke while facing your professor’s wrath all at once.

It was enough that the cost per credit hour has driven you to drown in student debt—why did you have to pick UChicago, literally any other university would have been less costly. Oh, how you want to shake the silly dreams out of your nineteen year old self. The juggle between two part-time jobs were barely enough to keep you from starving. How long does one have to fight espresso machines till they receive a billion dollar balance in their bank account… You had quite seriously asked Google once.

After what was another day of irritating customers and finishing assignments in-between breaks, you could finally fall face flat on your mesmerizing mattress and scream into the nearest pillow. Unfortunately for those relaxation plans, a medium cardboard box and stack of envelopes at the top sat between you and the path to the front door.

You weren’t expecting any packages today, you thoughtfully recalled; with a cautious curiosity, one hand swipes away the bundle of junk mail to read the sticker on the box, only to find exactly what you should—your unit number, street name, and postal code. Had you ordered something mid-sleep again? You certainly hoped not whilst quickly skimming your eyes over the sender’s address.

Though a name that tugged at the strings of your heart wasn’t something you expected… It was place that sounded so warm—so familiar. A small town in southern Indiana, in an old neighborhood known for its peacefulness, on a street that made your skin bubble with nostalgia.

The realization washed over you like a wave of reminiscence, not quickly. Just slowly. Intimately.

Thinking back to a time of sitting in the backseat of your parents van, large map spread across the dashboard, and your dad pointing to a specific location on the paper. Repeating a good few times to his daughter that she should watch out for the exit with this city name so we can visit granny and grandpa; giving a kid the responsibility to diligently stare out the window throughout the last half an hour of the trip and search for the upcoming highway exit. Though, now that you have grown older, you’ve come to realize it was just a tactic to stop you from asking Are we almost there? every two minutes.

Damn… It felt as if it was just yesterday when you last got to see your grandparents. Despite being so long ago, the memories lay fresh in your mind.

Rolling in the driveway to find them standing by the front door, waving to your smiling self in the window, while you were missing a tooth or two that had made you even cuter than usual. They were an elderly couple that stayed behind in the countryside to live quietly for the remainder of their lives. Their own children were out and about in other states, searching for jobs, or growing a family—like your dad.

A dull ache gently fell along your heart. Moments such as those wouldn’t happen again. Dancing to your favorite children's show theme songs while granny cooked up something warm, and grandpa quietly watched over everyone. It was a sweet memory that passed through your mind like a slide show, bits and pieces came to you for every millisecond that passed.

And for each second passing, the warmness from good ol’ august air brushed against the nape of your neck. Finally did it click to you that you may have been standing for five minutes too long outside your own apartment.

Before the next phase of memories took over your brain you had to get inside an air conditioned room. Keying the front door to plop the stack of envelopes carelessly on the counter tops, while your legs pushed in the semi-heavy box, leaving it beside the kitchen island.

The only thing you wanted right now was a shower to freshen up; so to the bathroom you went, leaving the strange box alone on the floor.

Just as the rest of your humble abode, the bathroom was modest. Very small and simple. What more did you need anyway?

You got in for a quick rinse and wash; now was not the day for a cozy bubble bath, especially while a box of mysteries and childhood sat in your vicinity. In record timing, you left the bathroom with semi-wet hair, wearing sweats and a hoodie.

Most days went in routinely order, you come from work for a quick shower, sift through junk mail, and lay back to flood your brain with nonsense television. As usual, you’re looking at the same old insurance scams, healthcare advertisements, and coupon pages you’ll most likely never use. Now for that box…

It’s not like the dang thing was radiating with magical energy, but there was a gut feeling saying it should not have been with you. The problem wasn’t the address per se but rather the home itself. Your grandmother had sold the old Indiana house years ago after grandfather passed away. A retired veteran purchased it for him and his family, so all of your grandparents’ belongings were long moved. Which brought up the question, how did this box get to you? And how did they know where you lived?

There’s the possibility that grandpa's lawyer had found some of his old paperwork, but why would the address be the old house?

The last thing you wanted was to spiral into countless questions, so with a burning curiosity and an apartment key, you sliced through the taped entrance and opened the rest of the way with your hands. Your place was perfect for acoustics, which allowed a strong snap from the side tape to vibrate in the air, pushing particles of dust motes to speed away.

The very top was covered by loose photographs messily covered on top one another—black n’ white moments of laughter, scenic sights, and some flipped over with dates and names scrawled over the back. There were stacks of mini chests and items amongst the photos and albums; were they inanimate objects? Yes… But every little thing inside this cardboard box looked as though it lived its time to the fullest. Memories, love, and happiness protected under the cover in forms that could last generations, it was probably stored away for years before it arrived at your door.

A scene of a man and woman plastered with the largest smiles was the first to capture your attention. They were dressed to the nines, one could assume they had just left an exciting venue. But what drew you in was the uniquely shaped flower ring that the young lady adorned on her finger.

To many it may have been seen as a lovely jewel that brought out the flower design of her dress; yet all that fell upon you was the priceless expression of love and adoration on your dear grandma's face—your grandfather was such a sweetheart, he looked high and low for the perfect present on my twenty first birthday… Granny had indulged in reminiscence with the young curious you. The jeweled blossom was her prized possession, a daisy of golden steel petals with small crystal spheres of pollen—certainly not an item of material worth, but to her, that ring was a symbol of devotion and loyalty for many decades.

They looked so happy with a tenderness clinging in each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed much even with time, your late grandfather still loved her with every fiber of his being, and the truth of that statement was not one up for debate, not when there was living proof in his beloved’s smile.

Abruptly, this spell of memories had to break at some point, the ring of your phone echoed along the room. When the hell did you increase the volume so high? The name of your close friend, Ella, was written in white across the screen, before the incoming call could bother the next-door neighbor you answered immediately.

“Hey! Did you leave work already?” She quickly blurted the moment you picked up.

“Yeah? I’m home right now, why?” A slow pit in your stomach grew in worry with the possibility of there being a problem.

“Oh, well you forgot your wallet in your locker, I saw it on my way out. I had another job to be at, so I couldn’t bring it over.”

If anyone could win an award for scaring you for literally nothing, it would have been Ella. “You could have worded that better!” Chastising the way she started the conversation. “Worded what better?” Your kind work and college mate had a knack for sending you news in a hit-and-run style—and surprisingly it wasn’t on purpose.

“Because you—just—oh never mind. I’ll get my wallet tomorrow, I am far too exhausted to look decent.” “Aye aye. What’cha doing right now?”

Eyes trailed down to the picture in your hand, “just looking through some old family stuff.” The long ‘ooooh’ in Ella’s voice hinted that she was about to ask a whole load of needless questions. “Not ‘ooooh.’ It’s just… Weird.”

“Babe, as the representative for your family, how dare you call us weird!” Suddenly she’s kin protecting your bloodline’s honor. “Not like that, silly. I mean, it’s weird that I have it. It isn’t supposed to be with me”

“Mhm… I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to elaborate here.” The sounds of rustling and metal chair legs screeching on the other line was a little push for you to continue, Ella was getting comfy and ready to hear the whole story. You sifted through the rest of the box while bringing her up to speed, phone snug between your shoulder and ear as you explained everything; the coming home to a box, the impossible address, and a treasure amount of family history.

While you had shifted most items to the left, a shiny object gleamed under the luminescent kitchen spotlights. Medium lens sticking out from the side, almost asking to be noticed. As you multi-tasked listening to Ella’s reaction and picking the vintage camera out of its hiding spot, you made your way to the couch.

It was definitely a lot more fragile looking than the current model of cameras; held with a black slim plastic-like grip and laced of silver chrome on the top piece. The title ‘AE-1’ was traced on the top-left of the camera, while the manufacturer, CANON, was labeled front and center. Poor Ella was rambling on about the possibility of a guardian angel trying to bring your fun side back, but you were barely even listening; mumbles and minimal responses passed by your lips while fumbling with the object at hand.

“Are you even hearing me?!”

“Who?” Your eyes wondered to the viewfinder, taking a quick peep as your ears barely paid attention to the phone. And the moment you did, air was no longer a thing of existence within your lungs. Ella complained on and on about your lack of contribution to the current conversation, but how could you? Especially when the image you saw did not physically make any sense.

Usually. Normally. Or at the very least, according to basic laws of physics and light, you should see the off-white wall of your room from the other side of the lens. However, for some strange reason, the viewfinder shows the one and only Brooklyn Bridge. The very same suspension bridge that connected Manhattan to New Jersey. All you needed at this very moment was a scientist to tell you exactly why you were seeing this or if you were in dire need of a doctor’s appointment.

“Listen, at some point we’re gonna have a little chat about your—” before the girl could finish, you had her confirm your knowledge on cameras, “El, you know the lil’ square thing that you look from on a camera…”

“Uh—yeah?” You’d likely get a whole thing later about cutting her off, “Well, shouldn’t I see my wall when I look through it?”

“I mean, if you’re pointing at the wall, then yeah totally.” Ella clarified, still confused. Then why am I seeing Brooklyn fucking Bridge, pray tell?! you internally shouted.

“I think I need to see an eye doctor or—or a psychologist–” You have finally gone insane, all was left was an official confirmation. “What’s going on? I’m kinda in the dark here!” How do you explain to your dear and perfectly sane friend that you were seeing things that couldn’t possibly be seen from a Chicago studio apartment. “Okay so hear me out… But for some odd reason, I can see fucking New York City from the camera…” Would she hear you out? No, absolutely not. But she was surprisingly supportive. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll work every bone in my body to find you the best therapist in Illinois—”

“I’m serious!” A goofy smile found its way to your lips, of course this woman could make you laugh during a time of crisis. “I know you’re serious—in serious need of help! New York City?! Girl, you can’t even see the freaking sky from your window!”

“And you are seriously no help! I’m hanging up, bye!” Ella’s giggles were then cut as you hit the big red button. What were you going to do with this Canon AE-1…?

What could you do?! Maybe there was a photo jammed in the viewfinder—or at least a really tiny picture.

Just once more, in the hopes you were simply hallucinating, your eyes made their way in front of the eyepiece and to your surprise—nothing had changed. A still image of Brooklyn Bridge was all you saw, but it had an odd addition in the photo now; the film grain was noticeable in darkened colors, hues were a tad more muted than normal, and just in the lower right corner, a faint white date slowly appeared, almost as if it was engraved into the photo itself. August 18, 1977. Could anyone make sense of this?

Everything else about this gadget seemed normal, the lens and frame looked just like other models, there weren’t any strange carvings or evidence of being worn down either.

Then there was shutter…

Maybe the washed up image would disappear if you just clicked the trigger. Lifting up the camera again, leaning your gaze to the finder, and lastly…

Click!

Alas, despite your multiple tries… Nothing happened. Although, the faint date had peculiarly vanished, every other detail of the photo was practically the same.

The famous Brooklyn Bridge obstructing the view of NYC, grayish skies, honking vehicles, and a windy breeze were evidently all the same—And a what?!

Your arms whipped away, grip remaining on the device, meanwhile you were suddenly in the good ol’ Big Apple, New York City…

I guess nonsense television and doom-scrolling will have to wait another day.

©thedailymichael 2026. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[thedailymichael]

Alright folks so just to keep y'all up-to-date!

The first chapter (aka prologue) of "PAST EXPOSURE" will be somewhat short around ~2K words!

I do aim to make the later chapters much longer, but i need y'all to know that i will take some time to complete them 🥹

🙂‍↕️ my goal is to provide you lovelies with good quality stories, so I won't be doing weekly posts or have a set schedule. Just thought to give you a heads up!

This series is very special to me and I want to take my time with it!